Upon a Spring
by Mari Chen
Summary: In between death and death, Ulquiorra dreams of what might have been- and finds that no matter how many times he dies, he just circles back to the same person.


A little quartet of chronological scenes that takes itself way too seriously … but I felt like writing something ridiculously corny and melodramatic. Anyway, incoherent sentence fragments and punctuation diarrhea follow.

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**UPON A SPRING**  
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XVI. THE TOWER  
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The Winter War was finished, and Ulquiorra had not anticipated displacement. His existence, from the beginning, had been planned. His actions, from the start, came from orders. He never questioned his steps because they were not his own to take. They belonged to that god-like creature, that one always part of his mind … that Aizen-sama. And what was the puppet to do, once its master was gone? He had been in this tower in their world for days now, feeling very much like a doll that had been put away, once playtime was over. He could perceive his mind playing with itself, going slowly awry in this cell with no direction, a poor humanoid facet of his shinigami evolution. And his blood, running thicker, bubbling bitterness and hatred—but no, but no, he could not regress. He tried to con himself into believing that the sentence meted to him would be something another than death, something apart from ceasing to exist. He did not believe himself; he was too clever, and tore holes in his own twisted logic. But he did know that things would move forward—perhaps without him. He looked through that narrow sliver of a window and saw a leaf, some indiscriminate hue of gold-green, sprouting on a lonely tree outside the gate. He had never seen anything like it, and for a moment he appreciated this tiny promise of rebirth, and for a moment he fell for his own con. The Winter War was finished, and Ulquiorra had not anticipated spring.

Ulquiorra spent five more days in the tower. He did not eat or sleep, but sat pensive against the whitest wall, which reminded him tremendously of Las Noches. He watched five suns rise, or one rising five times, casting five squares of light. And sometimes, he walked to the window and watched the world green. And often, he looked at his hands and at his guilty uniform; he swept over the ridges on his hollow skull; he measured the fixed distance between the six sides of his cell. And always, he observed that spring was gifted even to the unwashed trash of soul society, but not him. Somehow, he had become rooted somewhere just beyond this world, so that as the Earth spun on its axis, it passed him by but hit him every time.

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XX. JUDGMENT_

On the seventh day, he was escorted to trial.

A captain drew open a scroll and began to read his offenses: conspiring against Soul Society, kidnapping a human, and murdering several shinigami. Ulquiorra's face remained emotionless; he knew the trial was just for show. Everyone in the room had washed blood from their robes, everyone flickering with the ghost of a red wine hue—but to the victor go the spoils.

"The accused may now make his statement."

"I was made to follow orders."

It was all horribly reminiscent of the Nuremberg trials.

"Others in attendance may now make a statement."

Ulquiorra discretely swept a glance around the room. Most shinigami sat or stood stony-faced, as if at a wake. It was utterly disgusting, as he was sure that half would be cheering inside once his head rolled to the ground.

A slippery voice interjected his thoughts from the sidelines. "If I may," it said. Kisuke Urahara. The old man at the front raised both eyebrows, looking both impressed and faintly affronted. "My projects are typically unwelcome in Seireitei, but I believe I may have finally developed something of use," he continued, tipping his hat. "I have found a way reverse the action of hōgyoku—to discriminate between shinigami and hollow characteristics in a being … and have brought with me a little sample," he smiled curtly, twinkling a little bottle between his fingers, "that will destroy the hollow portion."

"Of course," Urahara appended, "if the spirit particles remaining are insufficient to manifest a shinigami, they will simply disperse."

"Kisuke Urahara," the old man addressed. "Has this method been tested?"

Urahara's lips upturned just slightly at the corners, and Ulquiorra found in the man both a creator and a destroyer. He could die in a thousand ways, with that little vial, or if it somehow managed to work—and here, he entertained the thought for the first time—he could live. And yet that, too, depended on whether there was enough shinigami in him, enough pureness.

"No," Urahara responded, nonchalantly tossing the capsule in the air and catching again in his other hand.

"But his shinigami tendencies are not blameless," interrupted a figure behind him. Ulquiorra could feel hate at his back. Idly, he wondered long it would be before the others gave in, and he was strung out like a shot deer for this silently salivating mob.

"I have run sufficient tests on him, in conjunction with my colleague, Mayuri," Urahara assured the now-simmering crowd. "He is simply a being of obedience, as were all the Espada." He paused, his eyes drifting above the sea to the entryway. "Well, most," he amended. The crowd turned slowly to the entering guards, heads bobbing and feet shuffling.

"You are early," the old man said, "the current trial is not yet complete. Please escort the prisoner outside."

The guards obliged, and pulled the hulking figure away—but not before Ulquiorra caught sight of a light blue tendril of hair.

Grimmjow. So he was not alone.

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XIII. DEATH_

On the seventh night, he was escorted to death.

Ulquiorra remembered birth—those first moments of consciousness, when Aizen had swiftly shattered part of his mask and exposed his soul—he had screamed from the pain, panted, as if waking from an impossibly long nightmare. He perceived, right away, that his existence lay in the hands of more powerful men.

And here Ulquiorra stood, complacent, in Mayuri's laboratory, on the last ledge before his end. He thought one last time of his birth, and was not surprised to find the two very much the same. Another powerful man.

Mayuri was bustling around, picking and twisting at different bottles, while Nemu manned the computer.

"Alright, we know how this is going to go, right?"

Ulquiorra nodded briefly. Obedient, even in death.

"Aw, why so tragic, Espada?" Mayuri crowed. "Urahara's concoction here is foolproof, I've tested it myself. It'll split you cleanly in two."

Ulquiorra stared ahead, forcing himself to stay calm. He was surprised that he hadn't attempted escape, or suicide, a more honorable way to die. But, of course; he knew exactly why. It was the one last hope, however miniscule and pathetic, that he would come out alive and pure. You've become weak and worthless, he silently berated himself, and his blood ran thick again.

Mayuri and two guards led him to the trial room, where a small but respectable group had congregated for the last act. Ulquiorra counted all thirteen captains and vice captains. The five friends. And, in the corner, buffeted by six guards, Grimmjow. Their eyes met briefly, and Grimmjow had the audacity to crack a barely conspicuous smirk. Ulquiorra bowed his head, perhaps in deference, perhaps in shame; how had Grimmjow come to be his last brother standing?

Mayuri procured the vial from his robes, and ceremoniously poured the contents down Ulquiorra's ever obedient throat. Some words were spoken, which Ulquiorra did not hear. Some motions were made, which Ulquiorra did not see. And then the liquid, heretofore dribbling benignly into his abdomen, brushed its way into his bloodstream, burning his capillaries.Birth and death were so very much the same. Ulquiorra screamed.

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XII. THE HANGED MAN  
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Coldness pressed his brow. "He's waking."

"Please, drink this." He accepted the cup with steady hands, not half as white as he remembered them to be, but pale all the same. Liquid flushed down his esophagus, and he expected himself to scream in response, but he could not muster even a cough. In the doorway was a man with blue hair, regarding him intently with an unreadable face.

"Grimmjow," he nodded. All past greetings to his—what were they? Comrades, brothers, friends, rivals—had been indictments. But, then again, the figure was not quite Grimmjow; the exposed mandibles had gone. Then again, he was not quite Ulquiorra. "Why are you here, Grimmjow."

"Checking on you," Grimmjow said, gruffly. Where he had expected to find an undertone of an edge, some wordless rebuke, he heard only softened corners. He paused and snorted, suddenly sounding more like the Grimmjow that he remembered. "You still afraid, huh, Ulquiorra?"

He closed his eyes, willing the dream to go away. "My name is Schiffer."

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Coldness pressed his brow. "Are you alright, sir?" _You still afraid?_ "And sir, your name, please." _My name is Schiffer._ He sat dully, his mind swimming in a sea of images, a sea that was quickly draining. "It's alright, take your time. Death is quite disorienting," she chuckled. So he was dead, then. He shook his head, "But I do not remember my life. Is that normal?" He turned to the woman at his bedside, finding an odd comfort in her folded skin and impish features

"Death has no abnormalities, sir. The soul chooses to forget what it wants. But no matter—you're in good hands now. One of the higher-ups has already sensed your high reiatsu and has agreed to sponsor you to attend the Shinigami Academy."

He gaped at her. High reiatsu? _You are Numero Quatro, the fourth most powerful._ "Thank you," he murmured.

She swatted his back, and he almost choked. "Ah, it's not my doing! They regularly make the rounds in this ward," she said, fluttering her hands at the rows upon rows of beds. "But you're extremely lucky, I grant you that—Rukongai can be a rough place." She squinted at his face and licked her thumbs. "Let's try to get rid of those little marks under your eyes, though, eh?" She jammed her thumbs into his cheeks, rubbing furiously at the teal streaks. "And you never told me your name, hm? Just make one up if you don't remember. Or go with your gut, that's your best bet."

_Aw, why so tragic?_

He smiled for some reason, feeling the last threads of those displaced dreams splintering. "My name is Schiffer," he found himself saying.

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_Lolz ok. One more part left, if I ever get around to writing it. In case it didn't register, the first half of 'The Hanged Man' was supposed to be a dream. And perhaps all the crap before was a dream as well—I don't know how Ulquiorra dies. (Hopefully, he doesn't though TT.)


End file.
